Honestly, I wasnt planning on getting married. If it hadnt been for my future husbands relentless courtship, Id still be as free as a bird. Edward fluttered around me like a lovesick moth, never letting me out of his sight, bending over backwards to please meyou get the idea. So, I caved. We tied the knot.
Edward instantly became that cosy, familiar presencelike slipping into your favourite slippers after a long day. A year later, our son Oliver was born. Edward worked in another city, coming home once a week, always bearing treats for Oliver and me.
One weekend, while sorting his laundry (a habit Id formed after once washing his driving licence), a folded slip of paper tumbled from his trouser pocket. Unfolding it, I found a long list of school supplies (it was August, after all). At the bottom, in childish scrawl: *»Daddy, come home soon.»*
Ah. So this was how my husband amused himself while awaybigamist! No hysterics, just grabbed my handbag, took Oliver (not even three) by the hand, and moved in with Mum. Indefinitely. She gave us a room, saying, *»Stay till you patch things up.»*
Revenge crossed my mind. Enter my old schoolmate, Simon. Hed fancied me for years. I called him.
*»Simon! Still single?»* I asked casually.
*»Natalie? Blimey! Married, divorcedwho cares? Fancy meeting up?»* he replied, far too eagerly.
My impromptu fling lasted six months. Edward dutifully delivered child support to Mum each month, handed it over in silence, and left.
I knew he was living with Lucy Evans, a divorcee with a daughter who now called Edward *»Dad.»* The moment Lucy heard Id left, shed packed up and moved into Edwards flat. She doted on himknitted him jumpers, fed him hearty meals. Id taunt him with her name for years, convinced our marriage was kaput.
Then, over coffee (to discuss the divorce), nostalgia ambushed us. Edward confessed undying love, admitted he didnt know how to shake off Lucy. My heart softened. We reconciled. (He never knew about Simon.) Lucy vanished, taking her daughter with her.
Seven blissful years passed. Then Edward had a car crashsurgeries, rehab, a walking stick. Two years of recovery broke him. He drank heavily, became a shadow of himself. My pleas fell on deaf ears.
Enter Paul, my *»work husband.»* Married, with a second baby on the way, he listened, consoled, walked me home. No idea how we ended up in bedhe was a head shorter, not my type! Yet suddenly, we were off to galleries, concerts, ballets. When his daughter was born, Paul vanished, switched jobs. Out of sight, out of mind. I didnt mindhed been a distraction, nothing more.
Edward kept drinking.
Five years later, Paul resurfaced, proposing marriage. I laughed. Edward briefly sobered up, went to work in Germany, sending money home. I played the dutiful wife. He returned, we renovated, bought gadgets, fixed his car. Life was sweetuntil he relapsed. His mates carried him home; I trawled parks for him, finding him slumped on benches, pockets turned inside out.
Then, one spring day at the bus stop, birds chirping, sun shiningmiserable as sina voice purred in my ear: *»Perhaps I can help?»* I turned. Bloody helltall, handsome, smelling divine. Me, 45! Was I still a catch? Blushing like a schoolgirl, I bolted onto the bus.
But Henry (his name, naturally) was relentless. Every morning, same stop, air-kisses, even a bouquet once. *»Whatll the girls at work say?»* I hissed. He grinned, handed the flowers to a nosy old lady, who cackled, *»Bless you, lad! Hope shes wild in bed!»* Mortified.
Henry wore me down. Three years I zigzagged between him and home. He was charming57, teetotal, ex-athlete. Divorced. I was hooked. Yet guilt gnawed. Returning to Edwardreeking, comatosefelt oddly right. *»Better my own stale bread than anothers feast,»* Id think. But my body? Rebellious.
Oliver knew. He spotted us at a restaurant, shook Henrys hand. Over dinner, he eyed me. *»Colleague. Work talk,»* I lied. *»In a restaurant. Right,»* he deadpanned. He didnt judge, just begged me not to divorce Edward.
A divorced friend warned: *»Still waters run deep.»* The penny dropped when Henry raised his hand to me. Done. He begged, pleadedI stood firm. My friend gifted me a mug: *»You Did Right.»*
Edward knew everything. Henry had called, boasting Id leave. *»Listening to him,»* Edward admitted, *»I wanted to die. I drove you to it.»*
Ten years on, were grandparents. Over coffee, Edward squeezes my hand: *»Natalie, dont look elsewhere. Im your happiness. Believe me?»*
*»Always, love. I squeezed his hand back, the lines on our skin mapping the years wed weathered. «Always,» I said, and meant it, the morning light warming the table between us like a promise remembered.
